Blood in Bed
by Slytherkins
Summary: Dean and Crowley have been howling at the moon for weeks now, and the Demon King has almost had his fill of Dean's misadventures. Not ready for the party to end, Dean tries something new in an attempt to convince Crowley to keep the good times rolling.


"_Who _is that?"

Confused, Dean followed Crowley's line of sight, rolling his eyes when he realized the demon was scrutinizing the spray of red that stained the military green of his flannel overshirt.

"Don't worry about it." He dismissed Crowley's incredulity with a wave of his hand and slipped onto a stool next to him at the empty bar.

Crowley made no attempt to disguise his dissatisfaction with the answer as he shooed away his lackeys. They looked anxious to be dismissed without having fully attended to matters, but Crowley was on hiatus and had only entertained them to fill the time until Dean returned. Reluctantly, they shuffled off, and Crowley turned his attention to his wayward prince, not nearly as relieved to see him as he'd expected to be.

"Don't give me that look," Dean scowled, shooting Crowley a sideways glance. "It's fine. We don't even have to skip town this time."

_This time._ Unlike Cedar Rapids. Or Sheboygan. Crowley sighed.

"Squirrel-"

"Hey, back off."

The threat in Dean's voice was unmistakable; hostility seemed to simmer just below his devil-may-care smile lately. Crowley would not admit to himself that he was frightened of his protegé. They were pals, after all. Still, he thought it best not to press too hard. He signaled for the bartender to pour Dean a beer, which the newly minted demon accepted with an eager grin.

"Did you at least enjoy yourself?"

Dean sneered. "I always enjoy myself," he returned, jovial to the point of sarcasm. "That's the whole reason for this little tour of ours, isn't it? To howl at the fucking moon?" He raised his glass to Crowley with an excessive smile before emptying it in one go.

Crowley frowned but otherwise ignored the cheek. As Dean motioned to the bartender to pour him another, Crowley rested both elbows on the bar and surveyed the offering of subpar booze arrayed on the shelves across from him, in need of a stiff drink but untempted by the selection.

"Did you kill him?" Crowley asked, his tone carefully conversational. "Whoever happens to be splattered all down your front?"

"This? Nah. Didn't even send him to the hospital," Dean said as if proud of his self-restraint. "He'll need a good dentist, though."

Bloodshed before teatime was not a good sign, even without fatalities. The effects of the Mark were strengthening. Unbeknownst to Dean, Crowley had been lobbing Abaddon loyalists at him ever since they left the bunker in order to sate it, but despite the near-constant barrage, he clearly was not doing so often enough. Crowley pulled his phone from his pocket to arrange a new victim ahead of schedule.

Dean scowled at the device. "Come on, put that down," he groaned, lifting it from his fingers. Crowley started to object. The thing held no shortage of incriminating content; most notably, several surreptitiously snapped photos of Dean himself. "I told you. It's handled," the man reiterated, apparently misunderstanding what Crowley had been using it for.

To his relief, Dean merely laid the phone face down on the bar between them where the demon allowed it to remain while Dean dismissed the bartender and strolled around to personally draw the King of Hell a beer. "Loosen up a little, will you?" Dean said, setting the mug of piss yellow liquid in front him.

Crowley stared at it with a conspicuous lack of enthusiasm. What he wouldn't give for a few fingers of Craig. "You know, you could at least give me some warning before you go out," he complained.

Dean did not reply. He stared at Crowley until the demon finally took a long, joyless swig of Dean's peace offering. Dean nodded his approval and reached over to reclaim his own drink. "I don't need your permission to go places, Your Majesty," he said, and though the address bordered on mockery, Dean raised his glass and the toast seemed sincere this time.

Mollified, Crowley allowed himself to relax. He did not return the gesture, though.

"I never said you did. I was merely suggesting that it's not unreasonable to expect a note. A bloody text. _Something_. Lest you've forgotten, Abaddon's minions still have a price on your head. It would be nice to at least know where to search for your corpse were things to go pear-shaped," said Crowley, taking another sip of his beer. Their recovering rapport made it taste better than the last.

"Aw, how cute. You're worried about me." Dean's bottom lip jutted. "Don't be grumpy, Papa Bear," he pouted, reaching across the bar to give Crowley's beard a sloppy tug just as the demon was lowering his drink. Both the whisker tweak and his damp sleeve inspired Crowley's less than charitable answering look, which seemed to have no effect on Dean whatsoever. "If the bitch herself couldn't beat me while I was human, you think these losers she left behind stand a chance now? C'mon," he smirked. "I'm basically immortal, remember?"

Despite the impression he gave to the contrary, Crowley had not, in fact, forgotten. Of all the anxieties he held regarding his new second-in-command, him dying was not one of them. Misdirection was habitual for Crowley, though. It wouldn't do for him to lay all his cards on the table this early in the game. This new Dean was more perceptive than his previous incarnation—when he could be arsed—and should he ever decide to give two shites about anything beyond satisfying his appetites, manipulating him would prove difficult, if not impossible.

"I just don't appreciate being left in the dark," Crowley muttered, searching for a napkin. He disliked having to manipulate Dean at all; it wearied him. Ironic, really, considering who Crowley was and how he came to it. "So, how about giving me a heads up next time?"

"Yes, Papa," Dean droned. He smiled at his own joke before tipping his mug to his lips.

"Oh, for the love of…" Crowley sighed, "Is that going to become a thing now?"

"Well, it is now that you asked." Dean's tongue peeked from between his inexplicably perfect teeth as he grinned at Crowley, and the demon felt his insides give an involuntary flutter. The incorrigible bastard had no business being so charming. Crowley gave him a withering look, but it was suddenly insincere, and Dean could tell. "Oh, you know you like it."

Crowley could not claim to hate it, but the new moniker was not what continued to furrow his brow.

He had not intended to be a father figure to the elder Winchester. They'd been meant to be friends, partners in crime. Crowley hadn't anticipated _needing _to parent the irascible git. His grumpy expression deepened until Dean's raised eyebrow reminded him it was not supposed to be there at all.

"So," Crowley began, as casually as he could muster through the mild sense of disappointment coiling in the pit of his stomach, "any plans for the evening?"

"Why? You wanna ask me out, Papa?" Dean quipped with a sultry wink. Crowley nearly spat out the sip he was taking, and as he lowered his mug to meet Dean's eye, he felt his cheeks color. It was subtle but noticeable, and he cursed inwardly seeing Dean do just that. Mercifully, he didn't comment.

Dean shrugged, "Same ol', same ol'. You know the drill. Little whiskey, lot of beer, some karaoke. Maybe a brawl, if we're lucky." He seemed to look forward to it even though they'd done the same thing every night for weeks. The only thing changing about it was the scenery when Dean's inevitable bad behaviour forced them to move on to the next dive.

"Or three?" Crowley proposed. His lingering embarrassment made him peevish. "Then do you plan to seduce the waitress, or have you ordered whores for after the festivities again?"

Crowley had thought he was joking, but Dean gave a slow blink, his expression artfully flat, and Crowley heaved a sigh. The routine was just tedious at that point.

"Were you at least planning to invite me this time?" Crowley sulked. "It _is _my bed after all."

In truth, they shared it. Dean had objected to the arrangement until Crowley pointed out that neither of them slept, so it wasn't as if he expected them to spoon. The fact remained that it was still his bed, and he rather felt he should occasionally be included in the activities frequently held there.

Dean sighed, topped off his drink, and made his way out from behind the bar, but he didn't head back to his stool. Instead, he sauntered toward the stairs with Crowley scowling after him.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Walking away from this conversation," Dean called over his shoulder. "I thought that was obvious."

Crowley snatched up his phone and rose to his feet to follow. "Squirrel," he scolded, but Dean gave no indication of having heard him. As he watched Dean mount the first step, Crowley felt himself become properly angry. He was King, dammit! And Dean was now his subject. No demon—not even an immortal Knight of Hell—was allowed to ignore his summons.

"_Dean_."

Dean finally stopped and turned to look down at him. "The fuck, Crowley?" he huffed. "What do you want from me? I'm a demon, for fuck's sake," said Dean, waving his drink in a helpless, impatient gesture, "I'm gonna do bad things. Hell, I think I've behaved myself pretty well, considering. Whores and booze is practically saintlike compared to what I feel like doing most of the time. Sure, I knock a few teeth in once in a while," he shrugged, "but I've only killed Abaddon's flunky fanboys so far. Well, except for that douchebag in Missouri," he conceded as if only just remembering the sin, "but he had it coming," he insisted, his chin rising.

Crowley reached for patience. It was impossible to tell if Dean really misunderstood the matter or if, like Crowley, he was cultivating plausible deniability.

"Squirrel, the morality of your actions isn't the issue here. Case in point, last month, I wiped out an entire café with the snap of my fingers merely because I found the ambiance too loud. What can I say? I enjoy their lattes. I simply wanted to enjoy mine in peace."

Crowley tried and failed to gain a handle on his temper. "I'm not concerned about a few disemboweled barflies," he stressed, his volume rising, as well as the amount of gravel in his voice. "What concerns me is not being made aware of them. I appreciate that you're sowing your oats. It was my idea, after all. But it would be helpful if _you _could appreciate that—once you're done—I'm the one who has to clean up after you. Or are you _trying _to leave a trail of breadcrumbs for Moose to follow?" he asked, loudly accusatory. "Because it would save us all a lot of aggravation if you'd just pick up the _bloody _phone and give him a _fucking ring,_" he concluded, offering his own for the purpose despite its sensitive contents.

Dean was unmoved by Crowley's anger except to be exasperated by it. "Oh, my god," he groaned. "Is that what this is about? You are such a fucking drama queen sometimes."

Crowley glowered at him but was not given an opportunity to respond.

"I get it, alright? You're feeling insecure, afraid I'm gonna go running back to my ex..."

Crowley spluttered his indignation.

"...but I'm not going anywhere, so you can quit your growling now, Crowley, okay?" Dean finished with a nod as if that settled matters.

Though the thought hadn't consciously crossed Crowley's mind, the unexpected assurance was annoyingly uplifting. As he debated the wisdom of reviving their spat by correcting him, Dean considered what he'd just said with a lopsided grin.

"Growlin' Crowley," he repeated as if trying it on for size, but then his eyes lit with revelation. "_Growley_," Dean amended, positively gleeful. "Man, I am calling you that from now on," he informed Crowley with a clap on the shoulder.

"Really?" Crowley muttered under his breath. It did have a certain ring to it, and Dean's delight was contagious. Crowley felt himself cajoled and resented it. "I thought I was 'Papa Bear' now."

"Oh, you are," Dean confirmed, his voice dropping to an intimate volume as he descended a step toward the demon. The hand resting on Crowley's shoulder slipped down to fondle the lapel of his suit jacket. Though usually razor sharp, Crowley could not comprehend what was happening. The brush of Dean's knuckles on his chest as he toyed with Crowley's suit was distracting. Dean drifted closer, further clouding Crowley's thoughts. "But, uh...only in the bedroom," he clarified, barely above a whisper.

Shock dissolved Crowley's bewildered scowl, and his cheeks warmed on recognizing the predatory grin usually reserved for barmaids and tipsy slatterns. Disconcertingly, it now seemed to be directed at him. Dean lingered a breath away, and despite himself, Crowley's gaze fell to the other man's lips. That's when Dean's mirth returned.

"Ha! I knew it," he smirked, releasing Crowley's suit and taking a step back. He leaned against the banister and regarded the demon with a smug leer before taking a lazy sip of his drink, and Crowley's cheeks flamed for a different reason.

The _utter_ prick_._

"You know no such thing." Crowley was still too flustered to quite catch hold of his warranted anger at the jest made at his expense. "There's nothing to know."

"Oh, really? You think I somehow missed the way you were checking me out while we were working over those triplets?"

Crowley shrugged, rapidly regaining his self-possession. He smoothed his tie, though it was not in need of smoothing, and slipped his hands into his pockets. "I mean...a bit hard to avoid, given the situation."

It was obvious rubbish, but what could he say? He was not blind. Neither was he 'straight', the concept seeming wholly foolish to him.

Dean was having none of Crowley's unruffled charade. "Yeah, yeah," he said, waving off the demon's excuses, unrelenting though not mean-spirited. "What about that whole, 'Two rooms is superfluous, squir-rel'," he mimicked. "'We move around a lot, we might as well put all of our junk in one place.' Yeah," Dean sniffed, "you know you want me." He took a deep draw from his mug and then set it, half-full, on the nearest available surface to be dealt with by someone else later.

Crowley shot the conceited arsehole a disgruntled look, but denial was clearly pointless. "That impression was pathetic, by the way," he said instead. "I half expected you to produce a chimney brush and break into a jig."

"Whatever," Dean said as he turned to continue up the stairs, "I need a shower. Can't very well get my croon on covered in blood." He only climbed a few steps before pausing and looking back down at Crowley expectantly. "So, how about it?"

"How about what?" Crowley groused. He was already dreading the future razzing he could look forward to as a result of being outed. He'd taken special care to avoid betraying his attraction, knowing how unlikely it was to be returned, but apparently the black-eyed bastard was even more perceptive than Crowley had already given him credit for.

"I'm about to get naked in _our _room. You coming?"

Crowley narrowed his eyes at Dean, trying to determine if this was just more teasing. When it was clear the demon wasn't about to budge, Dean descended the stairs completely, giving Crowley a look so smoldering, he drifted toward the nearest wall for support. Dean chased him there, resting his forearm against the wall over Crowley's head to lean in close as Crowley had seen him do to countless pretty girls. The demon king felt himself as overwhelmed by the self-assured seduction as any of them.

"Whaddaya say, Papa?" Dean asked, raking his teeth over his bottom lip. His flirtation before had been just that, barely sincere. This was something else. "Why don't we go…" Dean's heavily-lidded eyes swept Crowley's face, and he drifted closer to whisper in his ear, "...put our junk together?"

The only answer Crowley could manage was to gulp. Dean gave a short laugh and drew back.

"Seems to me that might be just the thing to improve your bitchy mood. Besides," he added, his manner suddenly conversational, "you know violence makes me horny, and none of the waitresses have shown up for their shifts yet."

He gave Crowley a thump on the chest and then turned to trot up the stairs while a gobsmacked King of Hell watched him go. He didn't turn to see whether Crowley followed, and Crowley was unsure if that was because Dean didn't care one way or the other, or if he just assumed it was a foregone conclusion. A part of Crowley considered refusing, just to prove to the puffed up bastard that he was not as irresistible as he seemed to believe.

That part was summarily overruled.

By the time Crowley reached their room, Dean was bare-chested. The First Blade and his shed clothing littered the bed. Hearing him arrive, Dean turned to face Crowley, waggling his eyebrows as he unfastened his belt and yanked it from its loops.

Crowley glanced down the hallway before closing the door behind him, though he hesitated to move further into the room. "What is this?" he asked, openly skeptical. "Are you taking the piss?"

"Does _this _look like I'm taking the piss?" Dean asked, grasping an unambiguous erection through the denim of his jeans. It was a crude gesture but an effective argument, and Crowley tentatively allowed himself to accept that this was really happening. Having permission, he took his time drinking in the sight of a half-naked Winchester. He'd seen it all before, of course, but he'd never been allowed to admire it so blatantly.

The smattering of scars across Dean's torso did nothing to detract from its appeal. If anything, they enhanced it. Like the subtle softness around Dean's stomach and love handles, they lent him a sense of authenticity. Though undeniably impressive, Dean was no Adonis sculpted from marble. He was real, made of flesh; flesh that seemed to beg to be touched to prove its texture. Crowley's hands tingled with the desire to do so, and Dean didn't bother to hide the satisfaction he felt at Crowley's appreciative gaze.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Or do you intend for us to do this with you wearing that fucking monkey suit? I mean, whatever floats your boat, but it sure seems uncomfortable to me. Or maybe," Dean said, ambling closer, "you just want me to help you take it off."

Crowley did not back away from Dean's approach this time, but he did halt him before the hands that rose toward him could take hold. "I can manage it myself," he assured him, his voice dusky but even. "You just concentrate on yours. That way I can concentrate on yours as well, yeah?"

Dean shrugged and stepped back. What followed was not exactly a striptease, but Dean well understood his assets and how to use movement to good effect. Like the rest of him, there was nothing superhuman about Dean's cock, but that made it no less mouth-watering. It stood at proud attention, bobbing as Crowley's eyes raked over it as if bolstered by his regard. Crowley felt his own answer in kind. As he watched Dean undress, Crowley slipped off his suit jacket and draped it across a nearby chair where it was soon followed by his tie.

"Um, you're supposed to take that off," Dean supplied helpfully when Crowley began to roll back his sleeves.

"Patience, Squirrel." Crowley wasn't certain yet how likely it was that this experience would be repeated, and he'd be damned if he didn't milk it for all it was worth.

"Come on, Growley," Dean whined, taking his cock in hand like a horseman soothing a skittish mount, "let's just bump uglies. Not everything has to be a fucking production."

"Clearly, I've some lessons to impart."

"Hey, I know how to take my time," Dean objected, affronted by the implication that he was not properly versed in this particular area. "But, you know, karaoke machine's about to fire up soon, so…"

The hand undoing the button of Crowley's collar stilled, and he stared at Dean. "Is that all this is?" he asked. "Filler?" Crowley rolled his eyes; he might have known. He was the ruler of all of fucking Hell itself, though, and not some cheap stripper or tawdry diversion. Crowley reached to retrieve his jacket.

Dean rushed forward and lifted it from his hand, tossing it back onto the chair with a placating chuckle. "Oh. Hey," he whispered, tugging Crowley closer with both hands, "it was just a joke, Papa." He rubbed Crowley's arms as if to warm him. "Sheesh. And here I thought you had more of a sense of humor."

Dean's touch was slow and convincing, but it was not Crowley's arms that grew warm. His hands rose to Dean's bare hips. The skin beneath his palms was thinner than some he'd touched, the flesh slightly less resilient, but it was luscious all the same.

Crowley decided he didn't particularly care what this was for Dean. He wanted the man, and he was in the habit of taking what he wanted. The heel of his hand found a natural grip in the hollow of Dean's hip, and he used it to turn Dean and steer him toward the wall.

Dean seemed surprised by Crowley's abrupt enthusiasm but not unpleasantly so. "That's what I'm talking about," Dean growled. His lip lifted in a slight snarl, and his fingers bit into Crowley's shoulders, but then he eased his touch as though afraid he'd been too rough.

Crowley sneered. He was not one of Dean's wilting barmaids. Crowley pressed Dean against the wall and took him by the crotch, not being gentle to indicate there was no need for Dean to be, either. There was far too much to fit into Crowley's hand, but he managed to enclose the mass sufficiently within the cage of his fingers. Dean sucked in a sharp breath and Crowley's mouth watered, wanting to rise and sample Dean's grinning lips, but he was more than half afraid the man would turn away were he to try.

"Since it seems safe to admit now, perhaps you should know," the hand that was not juggling Dean's bollocks slipped around to splay across the small of his back and savor its contour, "I've wanted to do this for a considerably long time," Crowley told him, his voice rougher than usual.

Dean's eyebrow rose. "How long?" he challenged, his voice just as jagged. His fingers moved to pick up where Crowley had left off with his shirt buttons, and he hummed encouragingly when Crowley's hand shifted to grip his shaft.

"Sometime shortly after you arrived in Hell, I'd say."

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered. He seemed to contemplate the implications as he tugged Crowley's now-open shirt free of his slacks. "Dude. I didn't even know you existed."

"Everyone bloody well knew _you _existed." Crowley's eyes fell to the nipple conveniently near mouth level. _The tall bastard._ "Lilith charged me with keeping an eye on you after you broke the First Seal. She and I used to have a 'thing'," Crowley shrugged, as if being the chief lover of the first demon ever created was no big deal. His explanation drew to a necessary close, however, as his lips sealed themselves around the enticing nub on Dean's chest.

The Knight's fingers tightened deliciously on Crowley's back and shoulder. He couldn't do much other than grunt for a moment, but when he was able to draw breath, Dean had questions.

"Are you trying to tell me you _slept _your way to the top?"

"Is that scepticism I hear in your voice, Squirrel?" Crowley murmured against Dean's breast before his mouth trailed downward to explore new territory. The copper tang of the blood that had soaked through Dean's shirt spiced his skin, and Crowley looked forward to glutting himself on every inch of it.

Dean hesitated to answer as if afraid doing so would interrupt the pleasantness happening around his solar plexus. "It's just that," he finally stammered, breathless, "well, you don't exactly look the part."

Dean's fear proved to be well-founded, and he frowned when Crowley straightened to answer. The demon didn't cease all his attentions, though. His hand still rose and fell in lazy strokes that made Dean's breath hitch.

"Not that demons are especially choosy in that regard; but consider, if you will, that this meatsuit is a relatively new acquisition. It's not like I looked like this in Hell." The hand at Dean's back slipped down to investigate the curve of the man's arse as Crowley spoke. "And you know, I could have picked any container I wanted. Can you imagine why I might have selected this one?"

"Its imposing stature?" Dean snickered, craning to look down at him. "Its luxurious head of hair."

Crowley took the ribbing in stride. The supple give of Dean's arse cheek beneath his grasping fingers had put him in far too tolerable a mood for him to take offense at much of anything at the moment.

"I will admit I was a bit rushed to choose. Gates had been opened. Daddy Lucifer was free and circling his vessel. Those of us with any sense knew it was time to go to ground, and the best real estate was going fast," Crowley shrugged. "I won't pretend I wasn't slightly swayed by this fellow's tastefully stocked liquor cabinet and rather impressive collection of designer suits, but what really sealed the deal was..." Crowley smirked knowingly and took Dean by the wrist to urge his hand to mirror Crowley's own.

Dean's smart-assed expression shifted to one of shock, and then to one of admiration. "Well, holy shit, Crowley. You got a license for this thing?" Dean asked, firmly petting Crowley's fabric-covered bulge. He obviously wasn't versed in this art but seemed willing enough.

"And what would be the point of acquiring weaponry one couldn't fire, eh?"

"So...what? Are you about to blow my mind or something?"

"Entirely possible. But it won't involve this," said Crowley, brushing away Dean's fumbles. "Not at the moment, at least." He maneuvered Dean toward the bed and gave him a firm shove to topple him. The mattress groaned beneath Dean's sudden weight, and Crowley took a moment to appreciate how substantial he was; how much of him there was to enjoy, and how delectable it all looked laid out before him.

"Well, bring it on, Big Boy," Dean said, spreading his arms in invitation.

The mattress dipped further under Crowley's black-clad knee as he situated it between Dean's bare ones.

"Call me Papa Bear."

...

The sound of running water pattered in the background, but Crowley was almost too preoccupied to mark it. He realized he'd been staring at Dean's green flannel shirt for several seconds without really seeing the thing. He reached out and pulled it closer, unsettled to be so unsettled by it.

A long-held desire of his had just been realized, but instead of lazing in satisfaction, Crowley found himself glaring at a piece of soiled laundry. The blood staining it had found its way onto the sheets and now onto Crowley's hands. The substance itself was not concerning to him. What bothered Crowley was what its constant presence on Dean's clothing meant.

Despite their recent, rather pleasant interlude, it was becoming clear to him that this just wasn't going to work. The afternoon had been fun, but it had been token on Dean's part, intended to shut Crowley up so he'd allow Dean to do as he liked for a while longer without hassle.

_It had been a manipulation_. And Crowley had known it, and he'd still allowed it to happen. He shook his head at himself. All this time, Crowley had thought _he'd _been the conniving one, but he had no control over the fledgling demon any longer, assuming he'd ever had.

Crowley sighed and tossed the garment away from him. He was tired. The whole point of turning Dean into a demon in the first place was to do away with this dance. This wasn't what Crowley had had in mind at all.

He'd thought he wanted Dean, at all costs. And he did.

Just not this one.

Though he no longer kept it pristine, Dean still drove the Impala, and the journal where he kept an habitual record of his encounters—both bloody and amorous—bore a suspicious similarity to the one ordered by Henry Winchester the week before Abaddon chased that man into the next century and out of his son's life forever. Dean still wore layers of flannel. He still thought flashing his pretty smile would get him out of anything; and if not, well, there were always his fists to fall back on. But despite these inexorable echoes of his former identity, it was undeniable now that Dean was not Dean. Not anymore. Not in all the ways that being Dean mattered.

Crowley had wanted the version that was damaged but honest. And he'd wanted the kind of relationship that that Dean had had with Sam, or Castiel, or literally every other person in his life who had survived the acquaintance long enough to form one: the kind that was sincere. Crowley had wanted, genuinely, to be Dean's friend, and for them to stop playing this game of pretending not to care about one another but acting the contrary. He had thought that if he could make Dean into something that was not obligated by decency to reject him, they could finally drop that pretense.

It wasn't a game now, though. They weren't playing pretend. Dean no longer cared about anything anymore, and least of all about Crowley. For all the trouble he'd gone to, he had accomplished the exact opposite of his aims, and the realization was particularly bitter.

"You still in bed?"

Crowley had not heard the shower shut off and did not manage to turn toward the sound of Dean's voice before he felt a hand land stingingly on his arse cheek.

"What, were you hoping for round two, Papa?" Dean asked, plopping down on the bed, still wet, beside a chagrined King of Hell. "Or maybe you were wanting to spoon after all," he teased.

Crowley rolled to his back and tucked his hands behind his head. "Wouldn't decline a second go," he shrugged, betraying none of his recent thoughts. "But no, I was merely taking my time in recovering from the first," he lied.

"That good, huh?"

Crowley rolled his eyes at Dean's self-congratulatory grin but conceded, "I've had worse. Oh, for pity's sake, wipe that bloody smirk off your face, Squirrel. I've also had better. Twist any faster to pat yourself on the back and you might pull something."

"You kidding? I'm in peak physical condition," said Dean, flexing his bicep for emphasis. "At least, that's what you kept telling me earlier, right before you started deep throating my peaked physical condition," he cheeked. "Besides, I have it on good authority that I am a fucking master. Literally."

Crowley scoffed. "Master? Says who? The women you pay to take their clothes off in front of you? You're a bloody amateur. I've spent centuries perfecting the art of debauchery. Check back with me once you hit quadruple digits, loverboy."

"Hey, if you weren't impressed, maybe that's just because you're not my usual brand of dance partner. I'm not familiar with all these new steps. But like you said, practice makes perfect."

Dean leaned back and reached for Crowley's thigh, running his hand up the inside of it, but despite his professed willingness, Crowley reached out his own to stop its advance. He was discomfited by the hollowness of Dean's banter, the emptiness behind his eyes and the lack of warmth in his touch; all things Crowley somehow hadn't really noticed until then.

"Maybe later," he hedged. "I've some business to attend to. I am still King of Hell after all. Wouldn't do to let them think they could get on without me entirely."

"Pfft. Lame. C'mon, we're howlin' at the moon, remember?"

The man was a caricature of himself, and it almost broke whatever Crowley had that passed for a heart. The act was convincing enough at a glance, though, and a part of Crowley wasn't yet ready to give up on the illusion. Once it faded, he was afraid he would be left with nothing at all.

Not that he could muster much enthusiasm for the farce at the moment.

"I remember," Crowley sighed, brushing away Dean's hand. "Speaking of, shouldn't they be firing up that karaoke machine about now?"

"Is it that late already?" Dean twisted to look at the clock beside the bed. "Time flies when you're having fun, huh?" he winked. Crowley was still shielding his crotch, so Dean gave the demon's unguarded buttock a sharp pinch instead before heaving himself off the mattress.

Disgruntled, Crowley watched Dean dress without comment, eyeing the First Blade with contempt as it disappeared into the waistband of his jeans. He watched Dean spend an inordinate amount of time perfecting the part in his hair before applying an irresponsible amount of cologne from the bottle on the nightstand, all without a word or glance to Crowley, who might have thought he'd been forgotten if not for Dean's short parting remark.

"Later, then?" he asked, pulling an unsoiled overshirt from the amorphous pile of flannel in the chair nearest the door.

"Yeah...later," Crowley agreed halfheartedly, but Dean was already passing through the door.

Crowley stared at it for a long while after it had closed behind him. He realized he still didn't know where Dean had been that morning, or who he'd assaulted or why; just as Dean had intended, no doubt. Crowley supposed it really didn't matter at that point. It might not be the worst thing if Sam did track them down.

Perhaps he could succeed in containing Dean where Crowley was failing.

...

When he eventually made his way downstairs, Crowley found Dean playing darts with one of the other regulars while the bar staff busied themselves with setting up the karaoke stage. The place was far from full, but it was more populated than it had been earlier. The usual suspects milled around the pool tables, and some twangy ballad lamenting lost love blared from the jukebox. Crowley stationed himself in his preferred spot at the far corner of the bar. Catching sight of him there, Dean left his opponent to retrieve their spent projectiles and strolled over to meet his sovereign.

"Listen. Squirrel," Crowley began as he approached, "I've been thinking..."

"Two this time, Barney," Dean told the bartender before Crowley could finish. Not particularly wanting 'Barney' to be privy to their exchange, Crowley waited until the bartender had handed Dean his order and turned his attention to the next patron.

"At the risk of sounding cliché," Crowley continued, quietly to avoid being overheard. Perhaps too quietly, as Dean had yet to acknowledge he was speaking. "And no offense to your blatant sexual prowess," he quickly interjected, "but perhaps we should just be friends."

Dean broke off checking his hair in the mirror behind the bar long enough to shrug.

"Okay."

"_Best _friends, naturally, but friends noneth-"

"Whatever, Growley," Dean interrupted. He set Crowley's beer in front of him with a slap on the shoulder and a dashing smile which may or may not have been meant for the demon, as Dean was busy making eyes at a passing waitress. Then he was gone, downing half his drink with one hand while accepting a fist full of darts from his new friend with the other.

Crowley frowned after him, then he looked down at the glass of piss he'd been handed as a consolation gift and pushed it away with a sigh.

"Be a dear and bring me a scotch, won't you?" he asked the waitress Dean had just been flirting with. The bartender was only at the other end of the bar, but everyone knew Crowley was a special customer. She smiled at him prettily and nodded. "There's a good girl," Crowley cooed with a wink and a charming smile of his own. It was far more effective than Dean's had been, it seemed. She bit her lip and gave him a blushing look over her shoulder, and Crowley decided that perhaps he was going to have to deprive his prince of a conquest that night.

That pleasantness was too paltry and distant to dispel his sense of disappointment in his present situation, though. As he waited for his drink, Crowley turned his back on the karaoke stage and the dart game, on his wasted hopes and failed schemes. He almost felt he was living one of the country songs that droned depressingly from the jukebox, and he was tempted to feel especially sorry for himself when his breast pocket buzzed. Crowley fished his phone from his jacket and scowled at the number displayed on his screen.

"You're dead," he said by way of greeting.

"Nope. Just using a dead man's phone."

_Ah_.

Right on time.

"Moose! Took you long enough," Crowley remarked, much more cheerfully than he felt. "Your brother and I were beginning to wonder if you'd hit another dog..."


End file.
